


shenanigans with jambalaya

by orphan_account



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cooking, Falling In Love, Fluff, Food Fight, Implied Cannibalism, Love Realisation, M/M, Pre-Relationship, This shit be intimate as fuck, Warning for NSFW stuff because Angel, also, but its light, canon typical language, theyre laughing and having a gay old time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21686437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Angel and Alastor have some fun in the kitchen one evening.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Kudos: 445





	shenanigans with jambalaya

**Author's Note:**

> thanks, once again, to [@strawberry-plmp](https://strawberry-plmp.tumblr.com) on tumblr for inspiring me to write this, do NOT tell me i had the idea first because i wont listen to you

Angel had only been curious to know of Alastor's jambalaya (it was more delicious than he'd care to admit, so he may have been itching to get the recipe, but he wasn't going to outright ask for it), but now he's standing next to said demon, watching him prepare the ingredients for it.

Impromptu cooking lesson aside, Angel is kinda enjoying himself. Because as much as he loves cooking hands on, getting his hands dirty and making random estimations with the flavours in the hopes that it'll come out right (and it usually does, yes he's bragging), there's something about seeing the so-said 'all powerful' Radio Demon so calm, sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, jacket slung casually over one of the counters they aren't using, cutting an onion so meticulously you'd think he was performing surgery on it.

"Was your ma a professional?" He asks, because watching the way Alastor cuts his onion makes Angel wanna roll his eyes. It's sweet, sure, but isn't this supposed to be about homely cooking? All rustic?

The knife comes down a little too hard at his words, but if it was meant to be threatening, it falls flat. He doesn't react other than with a short shrug when the other turns a look onto him. "She wasn't, but she very well could have been," he responds, static somewhat harsher than usual. "If you're referring to my knife skills, I just know how to handle them better than you, clearly."

Angel gasps, mockingly affronted, before gesturing back to the chopping board with one of his middle arms, the top ones crossed comfortably under his chest fluff. "Well? Prove it. I can match that."

"Go on then, old chap," Alastor challenges, handing him the knife and sidestepping away from the chopping board smoothly. " _ You  _ prove it."

Scoffing, he accepts the challenge easily, holding the bulb with his knuckles against the edge where Alastor had already begun dicing, quickly but skillfully cutting the onion by slicing in an arc. Once down to the root, he crosses those arms too, after handing the knife back, a smug grin on his face at the way the other's left eye twitches a little. "Good enough for ya, busta'?"

"It's adequate." Alastor takes back his position, chopping the next onion with even more finesse, which just makes Angel want to laugh. He may have seen his displays of power at Sir Snakey's expense, but this weird deer guy really isn't as scary as everyone seems to say he is. Especially not in a kitchen with his hair pulled back into a low ponytail, waistcoat undone and- wait, when did he put his hair up? It looks good. Angel's mouth goes a little dry, the shape of his jawline so much more prominent now than when he has his hair down. Fuck, he wants to taste his skin way more than his jambalaya.

But that's not important right now (as much as his dick might disagree), he doesn't want to make Alastor clam up before they've barely gotten anywhere.

"Pass me the peppers and the celery," the other says, not looking up from the onion. Angel wonders, not for the first time, if his weird 1930s broadcaster voice is his natural accent or one he adopted for the theatrics. Somehow, it doesn't match the food and culture he's described to the spider so far. "And you can get started on the tomatoes."

Finally, something to do. Sure, he can appreciate watching the way the muscles in his forearms ripple a little as he works the knife ever so smoothly, and he can certainly enjoy watching the way his teeth glint dangerously in the low light of the kitchen as he talks, but Angel's hands are itching to do something, and it was only going to be a matter of time before that itching forced him to touch the Radio Demon's hair. He's sure that would be disastrous.

The sound of peppers and celery being sliced before being joined by the onion and tossed into a pan to sauté reminds Angel of watching his own ma brown off the onions and garlic that she'd add to every pasta sauce she made. He voices as much, smiling when Alastor relates with his own nostalgia tied to the gentle sizzling sound, feeling somewhat like a bridge between the two of them is being built as they cook.

He takes less care with chopping the tomatoes, going for the more rustic looking chunks that he prefers with his food over the strange particularness the other seems to have a penchant for.

"Do you add the spices now or once the meat has been added?" Angel asks, because firstly, he wants that recipe desperately, and secondly, chopping tomatoes is much too mundane for his attention to be focused on any one singular thing.

Bringing out a brown-paper wrapped parcel from the fridge, Alastor sets it on the counter and begins to unwrap it. "Once the meat has been added, I don't want the spices to burn after all," his smile cocks slightly to the side in some weird imitation of a smirk. "I'd have thought you would have known that."

"Shut ya mouth," Angel retorts, resisting the urge to ask what meat he was using (he really doesn't want to know, the deep red colour reminding him too much of the dead bodies he's seen), better to be blissfully ignorant. Alastor places the meat, already diced, into the pan with the sautéing vegetables, the sizzling sound rising. "They wouldn't burn if you turned the heat down."

"But then the meat won't cook properly," the deer's voice lilts oddly, like a radio changing tuning halfway through his sentence, making his words sound strangely mocking. "Oh Angel, did your mother not teach you properly?"

The tomato, previously in his hand, lands squarely in the centre of Alastor's forehead, the squelching sound of it getting squashed and it's juices splashing all over the other loud in the otherwise quiet room. For a moment, Angel half expects the floor to open up, and for tentacles to come up from the depths and constrict him (kinky, and not necessarily a bad outcome).

But then there's a loud, crackling, tinny laugh as Alastor peels the fruit from his face and flings it back, laughter increasing when it lands perfectly on top of the spider's chest fur. So a food fight is what he wants? He'll get one.

Scooping up a handful of the tomatoes he's already chopped, joined by the very squished one they've already thrown about, Angel throws the chunks at the other, not caring particularly about where they land. A few end up in his hair, some on his waistcoat, but mostly they splatter on his face, the seeds sliding down his neck. And it's very funny to watch how his smile grows terse and forced, claws digging into his left palm as he tosses a cup of stock all over Angel's front with so much gusto that it splashes all over his face and hair, along with his clothes.

"What the fuck?!" He exclaims, throwing more tomatoes at the other (quite a few of them missing their mark and creating chaos around the kitchen) as the deer reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a big bag of flour. "Oh no you don't!"

Angel tries to lunge at him to stop him from covering the whole kitchen in the flour, but only succeeds in winding himself against the counter when Alastor dodges his charge, opening the bag and dumping it all over the spider.

They both start coughing after inhaling the dust, fine white powder (and not the fun stuff) coating the entire corner of the kitchen they occupy, like snow.

They meet eyes, and after intensely and viciously staring for a few seconds, they burst into laughter, bits of tomato, splashes of stock and a layer of flour easily forgotten. "You asshole!" Angel giggles, scooping some of the flour up into all six of his hands and dumping it over the other, laughing harder when Alastor starts coughing again between breathless laughs. He notices vaguely that the radio interference he usually associates with Alastor is much dimmer now, his true voice making its way through to his ears, deeper but also richer, like thick molasses sugar. It sounds nice, and he knows he's staring, but he can't help it, captivated. "We gotta clear this up before Charlie sees…"

He trails off his thought, watching the way Alastor shakes his hair out of its ponytail, flour falling around him like a small, personal blizzard, hair turning a soft pink from the powder. Once again, Angel is struck by just how much he wants to touch, to know what his hair feels like tangled in his fingers, but it takes him a while to realise that he doesn't necessarily want that in a sexy way. A blush rises on his cheeks when he notices they both stopped laughing, Alastor's eyes focused somewhere around Angel's  _ mouth _ , for fuck's sake, like some cheesy romantic soap opera. But he understands the sentiment, the endorphin high from their fight and subsequent laughing fit leaving them both with a chaotic energy that for some reason, translates to their bond growing (which yes, is good and all, but really? Covered in flour and bits of tomato and with wet clothes and fur?). Would a kiss hurt?

But the smell of burning onions distracts them both, and suddenly they return to their positions, Alastor stirring the veg and meat and requesting for Angel to add the remaining tomatoes in, his cheeks slightly reddened too.

He's so tempted to say 'screw the jambalaya, and screw me instead', but he knows Alastor won't appreciate that, and somehow the situation feels much too tender for that. But the need to touch and know more and  _ feel _ only increases the longer they stand next to each other, covered in food, still occasionally laughing when they meet eyes momentarily, because they both look ridiculous.

He wants, but in a much more mellow way than he usually feels, warmth instead of heat, honey instead of pure sugar, smooth and careful and gentle and…

Oh fuck, he's in love.

**Author's Note:**

> AND THANKS AGAIN TO [@strawberry-plmp](https://strawberry-plmp.tumblr.com) ON TUMBLR FOR SPELLCHECKING THIS MESS SINCE YOU CURRENTLY OWN OUR SHARED BRAINCELL (i hope ur feeding it the chocolate milk it likes >>)
> 
> anyway, i didnt know what jambalaya was until i researched it for this fic and it sounds yummy
> 
> also also its gay, thank u for coming to my ted talk
> 
> (psst on tumblr [@strawberry-whore](https://strawberry-whore.tumblr.com))


End file.
